


An Exercise in Swearing

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Excessive Swearing, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it, Injury, Profanity, Swearing, do not read if you're easily offended, pain relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock shook his head, still dizzy from the fall they had taken just a moment ago. He knew that swearing helped to ease pain, psychologically speaking, although what he was hearing went far beyond the usual repertoire that John used to pepper his language with.</p>
<p>Beware: This contains swearing. Long, detailed, creative swearing. In two languages. Do not read if you're easily offended. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exercise in Swearing

“Goddamned arse-faced son of a three-legged hairless fucking bitch!” 

Sherlock Holmes did not swear. It had nothing to do with politeness, of course. He found that an acerbic tongue and a disdainful look worked far better for him than any expletive ever could. Deep down, he suspected that his upbringing contributed to the restraint in this area, since swearing was never condoned in the Holmes household. He shook his head, still a little dizzy from the fall they had taken just a moment ago.

“Dirt-humping pissed-on shit-stained whorefaced twat!”

Sherlock had heard the alarm ringing from the jewellery shop on Saffron Hill, and he and John had immediately given chase, running after two thieves, following them down a narrow road and up a scaffolding, hard on their heels. Then something had crashed into the scaffolding – probably a third thief in a stolen getaway car, Sherlock speculated. The scaffolding had wobbled, then fallen apart, taking John and Sherlock with it. 

“Wanking shitbag _haramzadeh choseh khar_ fucking prick!”

The fact that John was swearing like that told Sherlock all he needed to know about the state of his friend. He was injured, though not dangerously so, but unable to move. Sherlock also knew that swearing helped to ease pain, psychologically speaking, although this went far beyond John's usual repertoire of damns, fucks and buggers he used to pepper his language with, so whatever injury John had sustained was probably very painful indeed. Sherlock was starting to get worried when the most recent spate of cursing was interrupted by a hiss of indrawn breath and a groan.

“John?” he called out, for both their reassurance. He tried to wriggle free from underneath the scaffolding that had crashed so dramatically around them, but found that he was trapped and unable to shift the weight of the wood and metal. He knew he'd been lucky. He had been able to twist as he was falling, saving himself from any breaks, and as far as he could ascertain, he was unharmed except for massive bruises that were sure to form in a very short time. He pushed the pain aside and tried once more to move upwards, but stopped when he heard building material shift above him. It was like lying at the bottom of a gigantic game of Mikado, with one unwise move bringing the whole mess crashing down with unknown consequences. “John?” he called again.

“I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here. Oh God. Bloody shit-arse Jesus fucking Christ on a sodding tit-faced cracker!”

While contorting his right arm to reach inside his coat, hoping that his phone had not been damaged in the fall, Sherlock made a mental note of all the expletives he was hearing. John was unusually creative in this particular area, and knowledge of some of the more esoteric profanities might come in handy at some point. 

Sherlock pulled his mobile free and looked at it, squinting slightly in the screen's glare. It worked, and there was a signal. He started one-handedly typing out a text to Lestrade, giving their position and situation, and sent it, hoping for a swift reply.

Another groan came from John's direction. “Thrice-buggered wanking _chocheh sag_ pissbreath!” The mobile buzzed in Sherlock's hand. Lestrade. “John? John, help is on the way. Lestrade is coming. Tell me how you are hurt.”

There was a short, humourless laugh from John. “Sherlock, I really, really don't want to think about that. Oh Christ...” Evidently, he had. “Hurts like fuck. Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Yes, I am. One of the boards fell on me, protected me, but I'm trapped. Bruised, too.”

“Lucky bastard”. John's breathing was becoming more laboured. Sherlock hoped that the police and, more importantly, ambulance would arrive soon. He suddenly noticed that he hadn't heard John swear for about a minute, which was not a good sign. He frowned. “John! Are you there? Talk to me!” Nothing. Frustrated, Sherlock heaved himself up against the wood and what felt like most of the scaffolding lying heavy on his back, but he was completely pinned down. “Dammit! John!”

He stopped struggling when he heard a shaky chuckle. “You'd think that... learned more from me... than a simple damn.” John was still awake, but he was growing weaker at an alarming rate. Finally, finally Sherlock could hear sirens in the distance, quickly getting closer. 

“I intend to learn a lot more from you, John Watson, so hang on a little longer. Come on, one more curse. Be creative!”

“Sorry, Sherlock... I think I'm... running out... of curses...” Sherlock heard car doors slam and running footsteps. Most he didn't recognise, but one of them he was sure was Lestrade, which was confirmed when he heard the man's indrawn breath. “Oh God, John...” 

“Sherlock's... under there... get him out...”

“Nonsense!” shouted Sherlock. “I'm fine! I can wait!” Even though he wanted nothing more than to see what made Lestrade sound so appalled, he didn't want anyone to waste time on him when it was John who was hurt. Still, he was relieved when he heard someone start to move the metal poles and wooden boards above him and he struggled to get free. At last, he was able to shove the board aside and stand up on slightly wobbly legs, leaning on the burly police officer who had freed him, brushing down his coat in an automatic gesture and looking over to where a paramedic was working on John while two others were running towards them with a stretcher. He hobbled closer to look over the paramedic's shoulder, then promptly fell to his knees and grabbed John's hand. John was lying in a mess of debris, dirt on his clothes and in his hair. His left trouser leg was soaked in blood and a ragged, broken-off piece of wood was embedded deeply in his thigh. It was no wonder the man had been shouting out obscenities, and a stroke of pure luck that no major arteries had been damaged. 

“Sherlock...” He looked up at John's face (blood in the corner of his mouth; split lip, not punctured lung, Sherlock noted with slight relief). “Sherlock, it's okay, it's only a flesh wound.” John was grinning faintly, apparently already under the influence of first aid painkillers. “'It's but a scratch. I've had worse.”

Sherlock almost sighed in relief. John would be okay. “Oh you fucking idiot, John, don't you bloody quote films at me now, for God's sake!” 

John's grin got wider even as his eyes closed in pain as the paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher. “See, there you go. I'll teach to to swear yet.”

Sherlock gave an affectionate snort. “I'll leave the swearing to you”, he said, “I could never aspire to be as good as you are.” He brushed past Lestrade, explaining what had happened in a few terse sentences, and followed the stretcher bearing the softly chuckling man towards the ambulance.

**Author's Note:**

> The effectiveness of swearing for pain relief is not only what we all do, to some extent, but it's also being documented in studies. I figured John, having been a soldier, would be able to swear a blue streak, and that he'd also learned a few Farsi swearwords during his tour in Afghanistan.
> 
> Translations from Farsi (google was my friend, all mistakes mine): haramzadeh = bastard. choseh khar = donkey's fart. chocheh sag = child of a dog. 
> 
> Written because I needed some stress relief myself.


End file.
